Stone Bruises

Simon Beckett STONE BRUISES

In memory of Friederike Kommerell

1

THE CAR IS running on empty. There’s been no sign of a garage for hours, and the petrol gauge is needling into red. I need to get off the road but the fields seem endless, intent on funnelling me along to the engine’s last gasp. Even though it’s still early the day is arid and hot. The breeze that whips through the open windows only stirs the air without cooling it.

I drive hunched over the wheel, expecting the car to die at any moment, and then I see a break in the green barrier. On my left a track cuts out of sight between wheat fields. I turn off, bumping over the rutted surface, not caring where it leads providing it’s out of sight. The track dips down to a copse. Branches scratch at the windows as I edge the Audi into it and switch off the engine. It’s cooler in the trees’ shade. In the ticking quiet I can hear running water. I close my eyes and lean my head back, but there’s no time to rest.

I need to keep moving.

I check the car’s glove compartment. There’s nothing identifying in it, only junk and a nearly full packet of cigarettes. Camels, my old brand. As I reach across the passenger side for them I become aware of a smell. Faint but unpleasant, like meat left out in the sun.

There’s something smeared on the rich leather of the passenger seat, and also on the unspooled seatbelt that hangs on the floor. The tough fabric is nearly severed at one point, and when I touch it my fingers come away sticky and dark.

My head swims to think I’ve driven all this way with it in plain view. I want to put as much distance as I can between myself and the car, but I can’t leave it like this. Branches push against the door as I get out. There’s a stream running through the copse, and my hands are shaking as I soak a cloth from the glove compartment in it. The seat wipes down easily enough but the blood has clogged in the seatbelt’s weave. I rub off as much as I can, then rinse out the cloth in the stream. Water flares over my wrists like manacles of glass as I scrub my hands, scouring them with sand from the bottom. Even then they don’t feel clean.

I splash water over my face, wincing as it stings the grazes on my cheek, and go back to the car. It’s coated with dust from the roads, camouflaging the black paintwork. I use a rock to smash off the UK number plates, then fetch my rucksack from the boot. As I lift it out it snags on the mat covering the spare wheel. There’s a glimpse of something white underneath. I pull the mat aside and my stomach knots when I see the polythene-wrapped parcel.

I lean against the car, my legs suddenly weak.

It’s about the size of a bag of sugar, but the white powder it contains is far less innocent. I quickly look around, as though someone might be there to see. But there are only the trees, and the background hum of insects. I stare at the package, too tired to process this new complication. I don’t want to take it with me, but I can’t leave it here. Snatching it up, I cram it deep into my rucksack, slam the boot and walk away.

The wheat fields are still empty of life when I leave the copse. I fling the car’s number plates and keys out into the tall stalks before taking out my phone. It’s broken beyond hope of repair. Still walking, I remove the SIM card and snap it in two, then throw the pieces into one field and the phone in another.

I’ve no one to call anyway.

The road’s grey tarmac ripples and distorts as the sun climbs higher. The few cars on it hardly seem to move, caught in the heat until they flash past in a sudden blare of colour. The rucksack rides high on my back, my own private monkey. I walk for almost an hour, until I feel I’ve put enough distance between myself and the car. Then, holding out my thumb, I begin to hitch.

My red hair is both an advantage and a handicap, attracting attention and announcing that I’m a foreigner in one single message. The first lift is from a young couple in an old Peugeot.

‘Où allez-vous?’ he asks, cigarette barely moving.

I struggle to switch linguistic gears. I’m more used to hearing French than speaking it recently, but that isn’t what makes me pause. Where am I going?

I’ve no idea.

‘Anywhere. I’m just travelling.’

I sit in the front passenger seat, the girl having moved uncomplainingly into the back. I’m glad the driver’s wearing sunglasses, because it gives me an excuse to keep mine on. They cover the worst of the bruising on my face.

He glances at my red hair. ‘British?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Your French is pretty good. Been over here long?’

For a second I struggle to answer. It already feels like a lifetime. ‘Not really.’

‘So how’d you learn?’ the girl asks, leaning between the seats. She’s dark-haired and plump, with an engagingly open face.

‘I used to come over a lot when I was younger. And I’m… I like French films.’